Biting the Bullet

So, after a month or so of looking for next year's housing and having nothing but lousy experiences, touring A2 apartments that are all a)teeny, b)dumpy, c)vastly, ridiculously, over-archingly expensive, d)did I mention teeny? and e)surely I've mentioned squalid? I have had enough.

No more flesh-gouging landlords shall toss casually over their shoulders "Oh, by the way, my wife and I have decided to raise the rent for next year--we'd been thinking Barely Affordable, but now we're completely behind Not Even With Two Good Jobs and a Sugar Daddy."

No more men in ball caps shall walk me through 300 square feet of rotting carpet and Bacardi-stained linoleum to tell me, with a self-important air, that "this is a very desirable campus unit."

I will no longer consider forking over every penny of my grandmother's hospice money for a "cozy efficiency" in a "quaint bungalow" on the "highly sought-after" Westside. I will not be placated by rumors that the filthy, mold-eaten kitchen will be "completely remodeled" before move-in or by the fact that I can lean out of the rotten, warped window casing of the cigar-box-sized bedroom and spit onto Main St.

I am leaving the Big Rock Candy Mountain. I am taking my money with me. Together, we are eloping with a forbidden love.

Think of me (and my money) as Billy Joel's Virginia, falling into the burly arms of a man who Runs With a Dangerous Crowd. A laughing man. A man who knows what it means to rent a decent motherfucking house for SLIGHTLY LESS THAN EVERY GODDAMNED DROP OF YOUR LIFESBLOOD PLUS TAX.

Yes, folks, it's true: I'm moving to Ypsilanti.

For those of you sure that such a move is tantamount to falling off the end of a squared-off globe, never fear; you can visit me anytime you like just by driving toward (and then past) the giant penis tower. If you're scared to do this but would still like to communicate, send me an e-mail--Ypsilanti is likely to develop connections to that new-fangled "Information Superhighway" any month. Even better, build me a care package and mail it to the Armed Services. I'm pretty sure there are still allied drop zones around Frog Island.

No, Ypsilanti, for all the hard knocks he's taken in a world that may be Separate but is never Equal, isn't bitter. Ypsilanti will laugh his raspy, cigarette-addled laugh and cough the phlegm of brotherhood into the bottom of his whiskey glass when you mince up. He'll give you Ann Arborites a hearty slap on your white-collared backs, and after you've picked yourselves up off the Tap Room floor he'll even buy you a good dinner (and maybe a peanut butter shake) over at the Chick Inn, just to show there's no hard feelings.

Ypsilanti is a good egg, even if he did try to send me to Detroit that time. Know why? 'Cause Ypsilanti is cheap.

Just as every good man should be.